


Three Dances

by greedy_dancer



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Dancing, M/M, Minor Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Nile Freeman, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29408658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greedy_dancer/pseuds/greedy_dancer
Summary: Still, Nicolò didn’t move. He did not want to appear rude and deny the hospitality of their hosts. But more than that, he did not want to stop watching Yusuf, because Yusuf was dancing.Three times, three places, three dances.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 16
Kudos: 102
Collections: Old Guard Server Exchange





	Three Dances

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eledhwenlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eledhwenlin/gifts).



> Dear eledhwenlin, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thanks to the server mods for organising this exchange, and to Castalie and Clachnabenn for looking this over!

1.

The fire was getting too hot on the side of Nicolò's face, and yet he didn’t want to move. 

He pulled his hand back into the linen of his sleeve to protect it from the too-warm air, dragged his clothed wrist across his forehead, where sweat was tickling his temples, and licked his dry lips. 

His side itched, the new skin covering that morning’s wounds pulling, and he wished he could retreat somewhere private to rub ointment on it. Perhaps Yusuf would notice the spot high on his back that Nicolò could not reach, and offer his help, and Nicolò would get to feel his hands--

Still, Nicolò didn’t move. He did not want to appear rude and deny the hospitality of their hosts. But more than that, he did not want to stop watching Yusuf, because Yusuf was dancing. 

*

The sun had already been low when they got close enough for the village to come into view, painting the white walls in dusk colours. Nicolò had been dusty and weary and parched, and their companionable bickering (Yusuf insisting on carrying one of Nicolò's packs while he recovered fully from the stabbing; Nicolò repeating that he was well enough, even though he was not) had taken a brittle, bitter edge. 

Then, suddenly, Yusuf had stopped in his tracks. 

“What is it?” Nicolò had said, his hand going instinctively to the pommel of his sword. 

But Yusuf had only smiled, his lips forming not the sharp grin of fighting to come but the gentle bow of tender sadness Nicolò had come to know well in the first months of their truce. 

“Drums,” he had said, and stood still for a moment more before shaking his head abruptly, the way he did when he was coming out of the river, his melancholy air replaced with glee. “There must be a wedding, Nicolò! Come! Oh, perhaps there will be makroudh--” 

Nicolò had not felt the same joy at the prospect of arriving at the village in the middle of a celebration, which they would certainly disturb. He longed above all for a long drink of water and quiet place to rest after their eventful day, but he could not resist Yusuf’s enthusiasm for long, and soon enough he was quickening his step to catch up with Yusuf, who was still speculating about which delicacies they might encounter in this part of the region, and how similar they might be to those Yusuf was craving. 

There had been a moment of hesitance as they stepped into the main square where the revellers were gathered, but soon enough Yusuf had charmed the bride’s relatives and they were offered a place to freshen up and sleep -- a stable, as all the spare space in the village was seemingly occupied by travelling relatives, but after their weeks in the desert any roof was a blessing.

With Yusuf at his side, it had been easy to forget how weary Nicolò was. He listened intently as Yusuf spoke at lengthon the differences between the traditions of his home city and these -- in terms that largely went beyondNicolò's command of the language -- and watched as he laughed with the other men. They did not speak quite Yusuf’s dialect but a form close enough that they could make themselves understood, and Yusuf seemed to have charmed them, just as he did all those around him.

Indeed, just as he had Nicolò. 

*

Sitting by the fire, Nicolò watched as Yusuf threw his head back and laughed, a bright, full-throated laugh, his brow smoothed of the worry that creased it so much of the time and that Nicolò was helpless about. 

Yusuf moved artlessly and yet there was such grace in his movements, it made Nicolò's breath stop inside his chest. It was obvious that Yusuf did not quite know the steps of the dance and yet in an instant he had taken in enough to fit perfectly with its rhythm -- a pattern Nicolò recognized, just like Yusuf’s dialect was not quite the tongue of the local people, and yet was close enough that they could understand each other with little effort, even before Yusuf had taken up the local dialect; the food not quite that of his mother’s house and yet made with similar ingredients, as Yusuf had remarked on on several occasions. 

It was undeniable; Yusuf fit in here. These were still his people -- or, they weren’t, Nicolò chided himself, any more than the people of Amalfi were Nicolò's, but there was still enough here that Yusuf could recognize, when who knows what expected them at the end of their travel? 

Nicolò sat, and sweated, and watched, surrounded by the music and the laughter of the women, the chattering of the children and the exclaiming of the men who were now, it seemed, challenging each other to increasingly complex steps. He took in Yusuf’s feet, agile in the dust, and his broad chest and shoulders, and the grace of his hands, the curve of Yusuf’s neck, his head thrown back in delight. He could not see much of Yusuf’s body but his mind still supplied him with the details of what was hidden -- Yusuf’s strong thighs, the muscles in his back, the bulge of his biceps, all surely flexing in his dancing just like they did in battle or his other exertions. 

Yusuf moved effortlessly, surrounded by laughter and music and people he treated as if they had known each other always, and for a moment Nicolò felt the ugly pinch of envy -- that he should have found a companion so much more apt than he was, so much better suited to their new life than he felt. 

And yet, he also knew how much of Yusuf’s apparent ease and carefree demeanour was carefully constructed, because Nicolò was always there when it slipped off, after they left the villages, after whoever they had rescued had been returned safe and sound. He had seen the weariness return to Yusuf’s shoulders and the smile fall off his face. Did Yusuf not realize he was letting his guard down, did he not think Nicolò noticed? Or -- Nicolò did not dare hope - did Yusuf do it deliberately, because he trusted Nicolò to see who he was behind the shield of his affability? 

Nicolò thought they might have been at the beginning of something -- their mystery, their quest for the women from the dreams, and perhaps more, from the way Yusuf returned his gaze over their fires lately. But watching Yusuf among the revellers, he felt suddenly a burst of shame at how selfish that thought had been, that he would keep Yusuf for himself, that he would deprive him of this and shackle him to a foreigner who had been his enemy. He knew he had always been too quiet, too dull in company, too focused inward. What did he have to offer someone like Yusuf? 

It was only when something moved in his field of vision that Nicolò realized he had stopped watching the dance and had gotten lost in the cloud of his dark thoughts once more. 

Yusuf was standing in front of him, chest heaving, glowing with the fire and the sweat on his skin and light that Nicolò would have sworn was coming from within him. 

“Do you not want to dance?” Yusuf asked, and when Nicolò didn’t answer, he knelt in front of him, concern replacing joy on his face. “Are you in pain?”

For the barest sliver of a second, Nicolò thought Yusuf must know his dark thoughts, and then Yusuf reached a hand towards Nicolò's side. 

“I am fine,” he said, “You do not need to worry. It is only that I don’t know this dance; forgive me, I did not mean to spoil your fun.” 

“You will only spoil it if I do not see you have any,” Yusuf said, immediately grasping Nicolò's wrist and pulling him to his feet. Nicolò went to his feet, unwilling and yet unable to resist. Yusuf pulled him towards the circle of dancers, where the men were weaving in and out of a circle in a complicated pattern. 

Nicolò must have slowed because Yusuf turned to him again and pulled on his wrist until Nicolò stood close enough to hear him over the loud music and the sounds of the revelers. 

“I will slow you down,” Nicolò protested weakly, but in an instant Yusuf had taken Nicolò's hand in his and Nicolò was being pulled in, and he found that it did not matter than he did not know the steps or those around him -- the rhythm of the music was travelling up through him, as if all the other dancers’ feet were pushing it into the ground and Nicolò's own were picking it up without his conscious involvement, and it made its way up his legs and into his belly and his chest and bubbled out of his mouth as helpless, joyous laughter of the kind he had not felt in so long -- perhaps ever. 

And Yusuf was laced all through it; his arm around Nicolò's shoulders or his hand at his waist, his eyes crinkled with happiness, adding to Nicolò's.

“You should have said something earlier,” Yusuf said at some point, later, when Nicolò was panting, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, bent double to catch his breath after a particularly fast-paced moment. “I would not want to make you feel lonely.” 

“You do not,” he answered sincerely. “I have never felt lonely, by your side.” 

“I am glad,” Yusuf said, and his hand found Nicolò's once more, and Nicolò's heart beat so loud that for a moment, he could not hear the music anymore. 

  
  


2.

Booker had found the place, a small cleared area among the rubble of the German shelling, where he said youths came to drink and dance the memory of the war away. 

It was probably a pathetic sight, all told -- a lone accordeonist sat on a high stool, a fallen-down wall for a stage, and a handful of couples shuffling in a circle in the dust in front, lit by a few storm lamps hung from a rope. 

But there was hope in it, too, Nicky thought, in the music, incongruously happy; in the faces of the dancers who embraced each other, lost in their own worlds; in the children running happily through the empty street, weaving through the dancers, chasing a yapping dog. 

They had come a few hours ago to discuss a job with a man who had never shown, but rather than retreating to the abandoned house they were calling their own, something had kept the four of them here, an unspoken pull, and they had joined the locals for drinking and a game of Belote. 

Well, Nicky and Booker had. Joe volunteered himself as dealer, and Andy dragged a chair a little ways off and drank quietly, only half-watching. 

She would need distracting soon, Nicky knew. The dark clouds had been brewing around her for days, accumulating in the absence of anything concrete to do, caught as they were in the surreal calm that followed the end of war. 

Something would have to be done, before Andy’s clouds broke and the storm swept them all away. (Or, Booker, Nicky thought. Booker would get swept away, because Nicky had Joe, and Joe had Nicky, and they kept each other tethered. But Andy and Booker were unmoored, still, the pain they kept hidden for years, decades, centuries, suddenly breaking free and pulling everything away into its wake.)

But just as Nicky was considering an exit strategy -- it would be easy to let the other team win the last of his cigarettes, pretend to be too annoyed to stay, get everyone back home -- a very nervous young man plucked up the courage to approach Andy and asked her for a dance. 

“Brave man,” Joe said, just for Nicky’s ears. They hadn’t discussed it together, but Nicky knew he had also noticed the recent brittleness of the air around Andy. 

She didn’t send the young man away with one of her withering looks, but rather barked out a laugh, knocked back her drink and got to her feet, throwing her arm around his scarred neck. She marched him to the dusty dancefloor, beckoning -- ordering, really -- the rest of them to follow with a pointed nod. 

“Well,” Joe said, shrugging exaggeratedly. “When the boss says dance…” 

He offered his hand to Nicky, who promptly set down the king of spades, prompting an outraged cry from Booker who had been fishing for it the whole game, and got up to follow Joe. 

“Join us, Book,” he called. The nuances of Booker’s insult were lost to him, but judging from the roar of laughter that followed, it must have been a good one. 

The rhythm was a sort of fast march and the couples faced each other and mostly wriggled in place, the women’s hands around the men’s necks and the men’s hands on the women’s lower backs, or lower still. 

It looked fairly simple and not a little bit ridiculous, all things considered, but-- 

“When in Rome!” Joe announced gleefully, and seized Nicky squarely by the ass. 

“Joe!” Nicky exclaimed, dropping his heated face onto Joe’s shoulder. No one would bother them here, he was pretty sure, and they could deal with whoever was stupid enough to try. But even after all this time, all the different customs that they had encountered, there was still a part of Nicky which wanted to keep his relationship with Joe away from prying eyes. 

Still, he laced his hands behind Joe’s neck and started shuffling his feet in his best approximation of the accordion’s frenzied rhythm, so close to Joe that he could feel their thighs rubbing against each other. Nicky hoped these dances were short; he didn’t know how much of this he would be able to endure without doing something out of character. 

Thankfully -- or sadly, Nicky did not quite know -- a distraction was developing next to them; Andy was sending her dance partner packing, having clearly reached the end of her goodwill towards the local youth. 

Nicky could have sworn that her misery was visible to the eye, a swarm of dark feelings surrounding her. 

“Here,” he said, and spun Joe around and into her arms, and Joe immediately caught on, bowing exaggeratedly before pulling her close into a formal stance that would have been at home in a Viennese ballroom. 

She rolled her eyes, but her feet started moving, as if without her permission, and she followed Joe’s cues into a sweeping grand waltz, utterly out of step with the music, but of course that was the point -- a break with the moment, a change of pace. 

Nicky found himself a bit of rubble to perch on and watched, full of warmth despite the cold night air, as Joe kept it going, leading them in dizzying circles-within-circles until finally Andy cracked, letting herself drop into his embrace and laugh, a joyous, breathless shriek of a laugh, and it had been so long that Nicky realized he couldn’t remember the last time he had heard it. 

Relief of seeing her happiness, no matter how fleeting it would be, warred inside him with the guilt of having neglected her. “This is not something you can fix,” Joe always told him, but Nicky couldn’t help but think, secretly, that it might be; that he only had to be patient enough, and caring enough, and somehow it would make things better. 

But then he also knew that if he ever lost Joe, nothing any of them did would ever graze the surface of his pain, nor would centuries or millennia lessen it. The mundane guilt of neglect morphed into the abject horror of knowing that, deep down, part of him was grateful that Quynh had been taken, rather than Joe. 

This was why he had to do anything he could to take care of them -- their Andy, their Booker. Immortality had cost them so much, while it had given him more than he could have ever imagined. 

He was still lost in thought when the smell of terrible liquor announced Booker’s arrival. 

“Remind me never to play Belote with you again,” he slurred, throwing an arm across Nicky’s shoulders and leaning against his side. Nicky stumbled under his weight but caught himself before they could tumble sideways. 

“They needed the cigarettes more than we did,” Nicky answered, unapologetic. 

“Speak for yourself,” Booked grumbled, but he leant his head onto Nicky’s shoulder, calling the image of a big cat to Nicky’s mind. 

“So. Care for a dance?” Nicky asked, mostly as a joke, but it made Booker turn him around so he could look into Nicky’s face. “What?” 

“You know, I used to think you didn’t really like me,” Booker stated, pensively. “Joe liked me. You didn’t like me.” 

“That’s not true, Book,” Nicky protested. It had been true, he thought, the guilt twisting in his belly once more. It had been true until much more recently than Nicky cared to admit to himself. But it wasn’t anymore. 

“I know,” Booker replied. “It’s fine. You like me now. We’re--” he gestured, a vague, drunken sweep of his hand encompassing the entire scene, Joe and Andy still swaying gently, the deserted little village, the night sky. “We’re all here, together,” he concluded, with the finality and wisdom of very drunk men. 

“Let’s get you home, huh?” Nicky laughed, and if Booker leaned on him a little more heavily than might have been necessary, Nicky did not mind. 

*

“I’m sorry we didn’t really get to dance together after all,” Joe whispered into Nicky’s neck, later that night, as he lay behind him on the cot they shared. Andy and Booker had retired to their rooms, appeased, for another day at least, and Nicky felt exhausted, his limbs just as heavy as if he had danced all night. 

Still, there was a peace inside him, too; the satisfaction of having helped, even a little. The darkness that threatened to engulf his family had been kept at bay for another day, another week perhaps, and soon there would be another mission, another purpose, and it would get easier again for a while. 

And then he would do it all again. 

“It’s okay,” he said, burrowing deeper into the blankets and into Joe’s warmth at his back. “We have time.”

  
  
  


3.

“Oh my god, _stop_ , I beg you-- holy shit, guys! The macarena is _not_ a current dance trend, are you fucking-- oh my _god!_ ” Nile said, eyes wide and mouth wide open in her utter outrage. 

Nicky carefully didn’t look at Joe, because she was so animated, so open, and if they started laughing she would catch on. 

“Wait, wait,” Nile held up a hand to Joe and Nicky. “Andy? Andy, are they fucking with me?” 

“Hm?” Andy called through her mouthful, the last of the sauce sponged off with the last of the bread. 

“The macarena?” Nile prompted. 

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Andy declared, turning her attention back to the relics of their meal. She wouldn’t stand for wasting food, an old habit Nicky wholeheartedly approved of and that she carried forward into the new chapter of her life. 

“Our Andy is too wise to bother with these trifles,” Joe nodded, solemn, and kicked Nicky under the table just as he felt like he would finally break.

“Whereas we keep up with the times!” Nicky finished valiantly, and then Nile yelled out “It is _thirty years old!”_ and they were both lost, spluttering, roaring with laughter until Joe was crying with it and Nicky’s ribs ached and he couldn’t catch his breath. . 

“I knew it, I fucking knew it!” Nile was saying, and it was the funniest thing Nicky had heard in forever, and so he kept laughing and laughing and laughing

*

“That was a good day,” Joe said as he closed the door of their room, shutting out the faint noise of music in the common room, where Nile and Andy were still dancing together to something syrupy-slow and full of base that Nile had pulled up on her phone after a few hours of flicking through her favourite music of the past decades. 

“You guys are training me to fit in with you, right? Well, consider this your training so you can fit in with me,” she said, and after all it was fair enough. Some of it wasn’t even too bad, Nicky had thought, and he knew Joe definitely actually liked some of what they had heard. Andy, well, she had sat and listened patiently, but it was obvious her attention had been on Nile herself rather than the music. 

“It was very nice,” Nicky agreed, and then: “I really don’t like these modern dances, though. I know it makes me sound old, and I really don’t want to offend Nile, but I just don’t understand them, Yusuf.” 

“I know, my love,” Joe said, and reached for him, closing his fingers around Nicky’s wrists, pulling him until they were facing each other, and bowing slightly. “Shall we dance the dance of old men?” 

“It’s late, Joe,” Nicky protested, but Joe had already started moving, stepping this way and that in a manner that was vaguely familiar; one of those things Nicky didn’t remember, except for remembering he once knew it. Joe was humming, a melody that reminded Nicky of the taste of makroudh and the warmth of fire. 

“Maybe something like this, then?” Joe said, changing tack. He positioned Nicky’s hand up, placed his own palm against it and lead them in a slow circle, stopping now and again to flex his knees and present his ankles. 

“How do you even remember this?” Nicky asked, baffled, as Joe continued his stately turn. 

“I don’t really,” Joe laughed. “I remember a little more than you do, that’s all.” 

He caught Nicky around the waist then and dipped him, suddenly, and this Nicky knew, and when Joe brought him back to his feet he took a few steps with him-- one forward, one to the side, two steps back, and suddenly he wasn’t counting steps anymore, he was just moving, Joe’s cheek was against his, Joe’s breath warm on his face, and his whole body was responding to Joe’s pressed up so close against his, and he wasn’t tired at all anymore. 

His hand reached for skin under Joe’s shirt, feeling the softeness of Joe’s side, his back, the sheen of sweat rising up there, and with his other arm he traced up Joe’s arm until he was inside the sleeve of his shirt, making him laugh and protest. Nicky tangled his hands in the curls at the nape of Joe’s neck and the protest turned into a sigh, and Nicky pulled just a little, until Joe bent his head back, and then he licked up Joe’s throat. 

“Nicky,” Joe breathed, and Nicky kissed his mouth, sliding his lips against Joe’s, dry at first and then wet when Joe’s tongue came out, and Nicky opened for him, pushing his whole body against Joe’s. 

It had been a long time since he had felt this kind of urgency, this need to _have_ Joe right there and let Joe have him. Joe must have felt it too because suddenly they were scrambling, separating and shedding their clothes as fast as possible so they could come back together, climbing on the bed elbows and knees, looking at each other with the same hungry eyes, pawing at each other’s fast-hardening cocks. 

In a few moves Nicky was sprawled on top of Joe, whatever grace had inhabited the previous moment completely abandoned. He clambered, eager and clumsy, until his knees were on each side of Joe’s shoulders and his face level with Joe’s cock, and then guided himself with one hand until he could push his cock through Joe’s open lips. Joe sucked at the head of it with a moan, his own cock jerking against his hip, and Nicky could not think of a better way to stifle the cry that was clawing its way up his chest than by stuffing his mouth full of Joe in return. 

Only it was too good, he was too keyed up by the sensations, the feeling of Joe under his hands, against his tongue, the taste of him-- every touch was amplified, Joe’s tongue tracing the ridge of his cock and then the slit, the wetness of his mouth, its warmth, Joe’s hand gently holding Nicky’s balls out of the way as Nicky thrust into his mouth, Joe's other hand clutching hard at Nicky’s thigh. 

It was too much for Nicky’s body to feel and do at the same time, and he had to draw away from Joe’s cock or risk choking or biting down. He let it go with a regretful lick and it slapped him in the face gently, wet with his mouth and Joe’s fluids. Nicky focused on keeping his hips as still as he could-- which wasn’t much, he had begun to thrust shallowly at some point and found he could not stop anymore-- as he let himself fall forward until his face was pressed against the crease of Joe’s thigh. 

This was a dance too, he thought suddenly-- leading and following, taking and giving, and it was one they had been dancing for so long but it was never quite the same; the steps and rhythms were familiar, yet they held the potential for surprise still. 

Another day, in the same circumstances, he would have tried to slow things down; they did not enjoy so many quiet rooms that they didn’t try to take full advantage whenever possible. Perhaps he would have knelt in front of Joe and let him use his mouth, or had Joe lick at him until he couldn’t take it anymore, or put himself into Joe’s hands and let him lead and work Nicky steadily, interminably, inexorably towards his orgasm. 

But right there, with his face in the crease of Joe’s hip, his nose full of Joe’s scent and his cock pumping in and out of Joe’s mouth, Nicky found that he couldn’t stop. 

He didn’t want to, and he didn’t _have_ to, because there would be time for all of those other things, tomorrow and the day after and all the ones after that, and right now Joe’s hands were warm and his mouth welcoming, and his hand on Nicky’s hip was encouraging him to keep fucking into Joe’s mouth, so Nicky did, taking his pleasure selfishly because that’s what Joe wanted to give it to him. 

After a while he felt Joe’s hand on his right wrist, pulling a little--it was agony to spare even that much attention in the face of his building orgasm, but Nicky managed to shift his weight so that Joe could have his arm, if he wanted it, whatever he needed it for. 

The arm was guided foward, a few inches perhaps, and then something bumped into the back of Nicky’s hand -- Joe’s cock, of course, and Nicky uncurled his fingers to grasp it, feeling the smooth glide of it through the circle of his fingers, and he hoped that it would be enough for Joe, enough for him to wait a little longer, just a little, because Nicky was about to come and the red-hot knowledge of it was spreading through his body, taking up every corner of his mind and locking every muscle in his body. 

It must have been enough because Joe moaned a little around Nicky’s cock, and then gave a couple hard sucks, slurping obscenely as he drew back, and the enormous wave of Nicky’s pleasure washed through his whole body before coalescing in his belly, paralyzing him for a few long, long moments as he came into Joe’s mouth. 

He thought distantly that he was probably making more noise than he should, considering the shared quarters, but it was making Joe buck into his hand. Andy had never minded anyway, and he trusted Nile to mention it if she did. 

He lay on top of Joe for a few seconds, his cock tacky in the cold air, breathing hard, and in the silence of the room, a muffled, but still very distinct moan reached his ears. 

Now he really didn’t have to worry about Andy and Nile minding, he thought, huffing a weak laugh. 

“Stop laughing and climb up here,” Joe said, swatting at his hip. “I would like to come too, and you’re crushing me.” 

It took a feat of strength and will for Nicky to take control of his still-throbbing limbs and gather himself enough to turn around, so that his head could rest on Joe’s shoulder and he could tangle their legs together. 

Joe’s lips were still damp with come as Nicky kissed them. There was another streak along the curve of Joe’s jaw, and Nicky licked his thumb and rubbed at it, making Joe tssk and bat his hand away, even though he always griped at Nicky afterwards for making a mess of him, which Nicky always felt was quite unfair. 

“So,” Nicky breathed, “where were we?” 

He ran his hand across Joe’s chest, goosebumps rising under his fingers where Joe’s sweat had cooled in the night air, making Joe’s stomach tense as Nicky grazed the skin with the very tip of his fingers. Eventually, he reached Joe’s cock, giving it a few long, hard strokes to bring him back to full hardness. 

“You could fuck me,” he said, not so much because he thought Joe would want to than because he knew how the words would affect him. On cue, Joe let out a soft moan, pushing into Nicky’s hand. 

“I could get on top of you right now and put my fingers inside myself, open myself for you, for your cock--” another moan, a couple of out-of-synch pushes, “--and then take you inside me, let you fuck me with your cock, give it to me hard--” Joe’s head jerked back, his breathing fast and ragged, and Nicky moaned automatically, as if he were feeling it himself. “You could come inside, I would let you, I will always let you, forever,” and Joe did come then with a harsh release of breath, wetting Nicky’s hand and his own chest. 

For a few minutes, Nicky touched Joe idly, running his fingers everywhere he could reach while Joe caught his breath, trying to make him shiver, and then with one last kiss to Joe’s shoulder, he got up to fetch a washcloth from their adjoining bathroom. Joe needed to wash after they fucked, but he also fell asleep in minutes, and so early on Nicky had taken on the job of cleaning both of them up. 

He had them ready for bed in a few moments, turning off the light on his way out of the bathroom. As he walked back to the bed in the dark, though, his feet caught on something discarded on the floor and he stumbled, swearing as he righted himself. 

“My Nicolò,” Yusuf breathed, tongue heavy with sleep. “So flexible in combat, so graceful in dance, and yet…” 

“Stop it," Nicky said. "Do not pretend. You are the graceful one, I know it, I have always thought so.” He got into bed, shuffling back until Joe’s front was draped against his back and Joe's knees were tucked into the hollow of Nicky’s knees. “I admired your grace even from our earliest days together.” 

He chuckled to himself, remembering how utterly out of his depth he had felt then, how unworthy of Joe’s attentions. “I used to hate dancing.” 

“And yet you danced with me,” Joe slurred, pushing his face against Nicky’s neck and placing a soft kiss there, and in an instant he was asleep. Nicky knew the rhythm of his breath as well as his own. 

“And yet I did, and will again,” he said, and closed his eyes as well, listening to the music of their breaths in the dark. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is what I was told me when I explained the concept for this story: “PLEASE I BEG YOU make them do the Tektonik!!!” So that's an image for you to think about :p


End file.
